


The Light

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [35]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis takes Porthos to church. Thomas takes Athos to a winery. Not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



“I think I want to go to church tomorrow. I’ve never been to the one on the other side of the park - although it’s so close.”

Aramis sounds sleepy, soft and content, and Porthos shifts against him, allows the blanket to slip off Aramis’ shoulders. He covers the naked skin with his arms instead, rolls onto his back and pulls Aramis on top, gives him a kiss.

They’re alone in bed, since Athos is out with Thomas, and probably won’t return until the wee hours of the morning. At least that’s how it usually goes if Thomas gets his way; and with Athos he always does.

“How come?” Porthos whispers, lifting an idle hand to stroke his fingers through Aramis’ hair, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You wanna ask for favours?”

Aramis giggles. “That would be a bit brazen, considering how very happy I am with you and Athos. No - I want to say Thank You,” he whispers; and then he lifts his head, and kisses Porthos, painfully reverent.

“It’s been so very long since I last went,” he murmurs against Porthos’ lips. “I miss it.”

“Then I’ll accompany you,” Porthos says placidly. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

He can feel Aramis’ smile against his lips, and it makes him go warm, all the way to his core.

“I don’t mind at all,” Aramis says. “Apparently the new pastor they got last month is really good - holds nice sermons - so I hope you won’t be bored.”

“I’m sure I won’t be,” Porthos replies, meaning it.

True, he’s not usually a religious person, can count the number of times he’s been to church in his life on one hand. But contrary to Athos he’s not an atheist either. He does believe in a higher power, does believe there’s more to life than what the eye can see. It’s just that he doesn’t need other people’s opinions on the matter, or an outdated book to tell him how to go about his business.

And he loathes nothing more than hypocritical Christians who use God to justify their actions - good or bad.

But then Aramis does too.

As far as Porthos can tell, Aramis grew up loving God like a second father, trusting in his benevolence, attributing everything beautiful to his name. He never really stopped doing that, not even when life became difficult, and frightening, and heartbreaking. Aramis still believes.

He still trusts.

And Porthos admires that, admires the childlike certainty Aramis has. Aramis doesn’t expect God to do anything for him, doesn’t blame him for what happens to him. God is there, watching, and that’s enough for Aramis.

Porthos takes a deep breath, enjoying Aramis’ weight above him, and lets it out slowly, conscious of the way Aramis feels in his arms, warm and alive. Sometimes, in moments like these, Porthos is so happy that he hardly knows how to contain himself. He wants to hold Aramis tight enough to make him gasp, wants to shower him in kisses, and tell him that he loves him over and over and over again, just to say the words, to make Aramis understand.

“I love you,” he says, once, because it needs out, and Aramis lifts his head and looks at him, his eyes alight with the same happiness Porthos is feeling.

“I love you, too.”

 

They get up early the next morning, just because they can, and to have some time to themselves before church.

Aramis isn’t usually an early riser - not if he has a say in it - but since this was his idea he’s up before Porthos, has already taken a shower and washed his hair when they set forth to the kitchen.

Neither of them expects the key scratching against the door lock as they pass it; and Aramis actually wheezes in surprise, and shrinks back against Porthos, who has to fight not to laugh at him.

He knows precisely who’s scratching at the door at this hour.

So Porthos turns the knob and pulls it open, grinning - takes a long look at Athos, standing in the hallway, clutching the key in his right hand, confused as to where the lock has suddenly disappeared to; and then Porthos pulls him in, allows Athos to stumble into his arms and faceplant into his chest.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Athos makes a noise of blissful inebriation and allows himself to droop.

“I’m gonna kill Thomas,” Porthos states joyfully. “Take his key, Aramis.”

Aramis does as he’s asked, and closes the door. “He smells like a winery.”

“That’s probably where they went,” Porthos grunts, lifting Athos up into his arms. “Thomas just _loves_ pushing him past the point of no return. Not that I can blame him. Athos is adorable like this.”

Athos promptly sighs and relaxes into Porthos, and allows himself to be carried to his bedroom.

“I’ve never seen him so drunk,” Aramis observes, opening the door for Porthos, who carries Athos through the frame, mindful not to bang Athos’ head.

“Yeah, well - he can hold his liquor like a champ. But give him _one_ glass too many and he -”

“I’m not drunk,” Athos clarifies at this point, perfectly enunciated. “Just a little tipsy.”

“Of course,” Porthos soothes him, petting Athos’ head. “And you can totally undress yourself, too.”

“Yes, I can,” Athos confirms proudly, pauses, and grins. “But I want you to do it nonetheless.”

He sounds ridiculously pleased with himself, and Aramis giggles, takes off Athos’ shoes once Porthos has put him down on the bed. “With pleasure.”

“You’re my favourite,” Athos informs him, head lolling on the pillow until he can stare at Aramis with the squinty eyes of absolute concentration. “You’re pretty.”

“Dear Lord,” Aramis mutters.

Porthos huffs, and wrangles Athos out of his jacket.

“You’re my favourite, too,” Athos whispers, in a voice of great secrecy, while Porthos manhandles him around like his own personal doll. “Always have been.”

“I should tape this,” Porthos grins, unbuttoning Athos’ wine-red shirt. “Your Mom would pay me handsomely.”

“Did you have fun with Thomas?” Aramis asks, sitting down at the side of the bed, and Athos nods, very seriously.

“He’s my little brother.”

“We know that,” Porthos grunts, pulling the pants off Athos’ ass. “I expect he’s your favourite, too?”

“Nooo,” Athos denies, eyes comically wide. “I only have one of him.” He thinks for a moment, forehead creased in concentration. “Does that make him my favourite?”

“Absolutely,” Porthos chuckles, leaning in to blow butterfly kisses to Athos’ stomach.

He can feel Aramis’ eyes on him as he indulges himself, closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation of Athos’ warm skin under his lips. When he sits up Athos is looking at him, eyes liquid with pleasure, utterly trusting.

“That felt nice.”

Porthos smiles at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes, I liked it a lot.”

Athos yawns and closes his eyes, and Porthos wrestles him into his pyjamas, gets him under the covers.

“You still awake?”

“Mh-hm,” Athos hums and blinks up at him, lids drooping adorably.

“Aramis ‘n I are goin’ to church today,” Porthos tells him, cupping his cheek, “So don’t worry if you get up and we’re not in the apartment, okay? I’m gonna leave you a note on the fridge too, just in case …”

Athos closes his eyes, and Porthos rubs his thumb over his cheek, helplessly fond. “I’m gonna make you pancakes when we get back. With lemon curd and blueberries.”

He watches Athos’ mouth pull into a smile, watches him turn his head so he can nuzzle his palm.

“I love you,” Athos whispers.

“Love you, too,” Porthos murmurs back, his voice rough.

Aramis is right, he thinks. Can’t hurt to say Thank You for this.


	2. Chapter 2

They leave Athos a bottle of water and some aspirin on the bedside table, just in case.

The morning air is fresh and a little cold, but birds are singing in the trees, and the sun is already doing its best to warm the ground. Spring is finally in full swing it seems, unfurling young petals and blossoms in the bushes, and Porthos puts his arm around Aramis’ shoulders as they take the scenic route to church.

They’re almost alone in the park at this hour, encounter no-one but the usual suspects: joggers and dog walkers, each minding their own business, or - in the case of the dog walkers - the business of their dogs.

Aramis looks very handsome in the early morning light, relaxed and happy; and Porthos grins when he realizes that he’s wearing one of Athos’ jackets, together with the scarf Constance gave him for Christmas.

“I like that jacket on you,” Porthos murmurs into his ear, makes Aramis flush with pleasure at the compliment. “Very fashionable. Athos would approve.”

“He told me I could borrow it whenever I like,” Aramis says, stroking his hand over the chocolate coloured leather. “I like how it smells like you - both of you.”

The warmth in his voice stirs something in Porthos, something helpless and fond, and he squeezes Aramis’ shoulder, barely refrains from pulling him in for a kiss.

But the church bells are ringing already, calling the worshippers in, so there’s no time for more than the brush of his lips to Aramis’ temple, no time for more than breathing him in - warm and happy and _his_.

He allows Aramis to pull him to the foremost tier of church benches, waits for Aramis to murmur a few words of prayer and sign the cross before he sits down.

The church itself is beautiful: simple and bright, its walls white, the columns of a light brown, almost cream. The only ornamentation is a picture of Christ behind the altar, nearly wall-high, illuminated by candles and a magnificent chandelier.

Porthos likes it far more than he thought he would … possibly because it reminds him of his favourite salon at La Fère, the one they always celebrate Christmas in. There’s nothing opulent or oppressive about this church. As far as Porthos is concerned it’s a good place for prayer, one that takes you out of yourself and lifts you up gently instead of smothering you in symbolism and red velvet.

It’s a few minutes to the full hour, so service hasn’t started yet. Nevertheless Aramis is quiet beside Porthos, head bent downwards, eyes closed. He looks as if he’s preparing himself for what’s coming, looks as though he’s shifting some internal gears, oiling an engine that hasn’t been used for a while.

When he finally opens his eyes they are bright, shining with some inner light, and Porthos cannot resist taking his hand - wants some of that light for himself, as improper as that may be.

Aramis smiles back at him and links their fingers, and then the pastor steps onto the pulpit, and her appearance suffices to silence all the voices that were talking, shushes all the noise.

Her voice, when she speaks, is deep and clear, and Porthos listens as she talks of the poor in need, of the Christian duty to help those who have fallen on hard times - not just because it is what Christ himself would have done, but because it is the right thing to do.

Porthos likes her. She has something sturdy and very real about her, a tether as strong to earth as it is to heaven.

Aramis keeps holding his hand through the service, sits beside Porthos, radiant with that inner light, and Porthos can’t stop looking at him from the corner of his eye, doesn’t even realize he’s smiling, white and blinding.

The service ends far sooner than he expects, and it feels strange when the congregation comes back to life around them, when they start talking and laughing and fill the church with noise again.

Aramis is one of the last to stand up from his place on the bench, and Porthos waits beside him until he is ready - ready to leave and get back to the outside world. He’s surprised when Aramis keeps holding on to his hand even then, when he allows the people surrounding them to see what they are to each other.

They make their way to the big front doors holding on to each other, and there’s nothing shy or guilty in Aramis’ demeanour; instead he’s almost proud, holds his head high, smiles when he feels someone looking at him ... when he feels a curious glance drop down to where he’s holding Porthos’ hand.

The pastor beams at them when they reach her, shakes their hands and thanks them for coming in; and then they’re back outside in the real world, walk down the church steps with the spring sun shining down on them, and Aramis takes a deep breath. Happy. Elated.

“Unbelievable,” a voice mutters behind them. “Do these gays know no shame at all …”

Porthos’ head snaps up, and his eyes narrow as he goes cold with protective fury - all the more angry for being accosted like this _now_ , after such a beautiful sermon; and then Aramis turns around and smiles at the offended woman, sweet as can be. “We’re bisexual, actually.”

Porthos blinks at him in amazement as the woman stammers out an excuse; and Aramis’ smile widens. “It’s a common misconception, but you really shouldn’t assume. I wish you a nice Sunday, M’am.”

Porthos can only stare at him as he pulls him along, away from the church and towards the park that’s filling with people now that it’s an hour later and the sun is gaining force.

“That was unexpected,” he finally gets out once they’re firmly en route back home. They’re still holding hands - now as much for Porthos’ fortitude as anything else.

Aramis shrugs. “There are always people who fail to listen to the truly important parts of the scripture.”

“Not the bigot - _you_!” Porthos exclaims, a surprised laugh in his voice. “That was really somethin’ - the way you told her off.”

Aramis blushes a little at the admiration in Porthos’ voice, and he dips his head, smiles at the ground. “It’s how my Dad would have done it. He doesn’t hold with letting people get away with that kind of nonsense.”

Porthos wants to squish him, but keeps himself in check. “I liked the sermon by the way. I think I wanna go again next week, too. Maybe drag Athos with me. He could do with a little faith in his life.”

What Porthos doesn’t tell Aramis - what he doesn’t think Aramis is ready to hear - is that what Porthos really thinks Athos would benefit from is the look on Aramis’ face when he listens to the pastor speak.

Next to him Aramis makes a thoughtful noise and looks up at the sky instead of down at the ground. “I think Athos has a lot of faith, actually. Not necessarily in God, or any higher power … but in you … and me too, maybe. I wouldn’t want to force him to join us against his will.”

Porthos is stunned, truly and utterly stunned, both by the quiet acceptance in Aramis’ voice and the fact that he likens his own faith to the way Athos depends on them - _them_ , not Porthos alone, but him and Aramis both.

“Oh, he’s comin’ with us,” he mutters, “and if I have to drag him along by his hair.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s silent in the apartment when they get back.

Athos, when they check in on him, is fast asleep - lying on his side and snoring peacefully, with his cheek mushed into the pillow, clutching the comforter to his chest.

So they retreat to the kitchen to wait for him to wake up. Aramis makes tea while Porthos prepares a second breakfast, with scrambled eggs and bacon and a few generous slices of homemade garlic bread. He also prepares the batter for the promised pancakes and puts it to the side for later, gets a glass of lemon curd out of the fridge and puts it on the kitchen counter, next to the blueberries he’d bought on the previous day.

Once that’s done they take their bounty to the couch, snuggle up while they eat, comfortable and domestic. Porthos loves it.

He loves that Aramis keeps smiling to himself, unaware that he’s doing it, that he still has that same light from earlier inside him, shining out of his eyes, lending a glittering warmth to his smile.

It makes Porthos want to touch him - the way you want to dip your fingers into a pot of gold paint … to leave swirls and sprinkles of brightness on the walls and ceiling, just so they’re there when you look up. To pretty the world.

But instead of touching Aramis any more than he already does, Porthos asks him about his father’s sermons, asks if they are like the one they heard today.

Aramis tilts his head in reaction to the question, eyes wide open and thoughtful - possibly staring at those golden swirls of light that aren’t really there, but very real nevertheless.

“In essence I’d say yes,” Aramis finally replies. “The pastor from today shares his attitude - has the same opinion on important things … at least as far as I can tell after only one sermon. But my Dad, he … his style is different.”

Aramis grins suddenly, dips his head and cradles his tea cup closer to his chest. “He’s been doing it for a long time, you see - giving sermons - and his parish is smaller. He knows his flock in person. All of them. So it feels a little more personal … certainly when he comes down from the pulpit to try and soothe a crying baby himself.”

Porthos chuckles and nods, trails his fingertips over the coloured glass of his tea cup. “I can imagine him doin’ that.”

Aramis’ expression turns a little stiff, a little sad. “I’m going to miss it when he retires - hearing him preach.”

“Wanna drive up to your hometown for a weekend and go to one of his sermons?” Porthos asks. “Because we can totally do that.”

As far as Porthos is concerned it’s a perfectly normal suggestion, but for a moment Aramis doesn’t reply anything, while the light in his eyes turns bright with gratitude. Then he puts his tea cup on the table, and takes Porthos’ away from him as well.

“Come here,” he whispers, grasping Porthos’ wrist, and Porthos follows his urging readily, allows Aramis to pull him between his legs and on top of him.

He puts his head on Aramis’ chest, and Aramis buries his hands in his hair, strokes his fingers through his curls. They remain like that, unmoving, until their breathing synchronizes and time flows a little softer around them.

“I’m not too heavy for you, am I?” Porthos mumbles after a while, eyes closed, utterly relaxed.

Aramis chuckles. “I’m not that fragile.” He tweaks one of Porthos’ curls. “Plus: I’m the one who pulled you in.”

“Just makin’ sure,” Porthos rumbles, his mouth curling into a smile. “People have been known to complain about me smotherin’ them.”

“He only does that to get a rise out of you,” Aramis argues, and Porthos snorts.

“Yeah. Literally.”

That makes Aramis giggle; and Porthos loves how he can feel the aftershocks of his laughter in his own body, how Aramis’ amusement vibrates through them both. He rubs his cheek over Aramis’ pullover, eyes still closed, and sighs in comfort.

He’s so grateful for having Aramis in his life.

 

Athos emerges from his room sometime after noon.

He appears wrapped in his comforter, hair mussed beyond recognition, eyes heavy with sleep deprivation.

“I was promised pancakes,” he grouches. “I may not remember much besides, but I was most definitely promised pancakes.”

Porthos remains on the couch and doesn’t say anything in reply, just watches him waddle closer, trailing his comforter like the tail of a very cuddly comet.

Once he’s close enough, Porthos grabs Athos and pulls him onto the couch, dumps him between Aramis and himself, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Have some tea while I make ‘em, yeah?”

“You’re lucky my stomach’s not upset,” Athos murmurs, apparently still somewhat drunk, and promptly snuggles up to Aramis. “I want those pancakes now.”

“How very single-minded of you,” Porthos grins, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek before he gets up and walks over to the kitchen unit. When he glances back over his shoulder, Aramis is making Athos comfortable on the couch, rearranging his blanket and pouring him a cup of tea that Athos accepts with wide-eyed meekness.

It may well be the lingering alcohol in his system that makes Athos stare at Aramis as if he was a brand new species, but Porthos suspects it’s the aura of quiet self-assuredness still floating around Aramis that’s causing that.

Athos looks stunned, captivated even, and when Aramis tilts his head and asks him if something’s wrong, a little smile pulls up the corners of Athos’ mouth. “You’re glowing.”

Aramis blinks at him, once, twice, and then he wrinkles his nose, caught somewhere between amusement and uncertainty. “That should stop once you’ve eaten something.”

Porthos lets out a grunt of amusement, and starts cooking.

When he brings the tower of pancakes over to the sofa Athos is dozing with his head resting against Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis has picked up one of the books both Athos and Porthos keep lying around; but he looks up from his quiet reading when Porthos puts the plate on the table, smiles and turns his head to gauge Athos’ state of consciousness.

The movement proves enough to wake him, and he straightens, first blinking up at Aramis and then transferring his gaze to the table when he smells the pancakes. “I hope those are all for me?”

“Yes, they are,” Porthos chuckles, helping him out of the restrictive comfort of his blanket before he takes the place to Athos’ left. “Aramis ‘n I had a big brunch.”

Thus Athos lays waste to the pancakes all by himself, watched in amazement by Aramis, who has probably never seen him this ravenous. It distracts him sufficiently to remain oblivious to the way Athos keeps stealing glances at him - still visibly intrigued by the change in Aramis’ appearance he has yet no explanation for.

Porthos notices though, because he can’t stop watching them both, and he loves that little gleam of amazement in Athos’ eyes, loves that Athos can tell that something is different about Aramis despite of how tired he is.

So when Athos has finally wolfed down the last pancake, generously dipped in lemon curd, and is lazily picking blueberries from his plate, Porthos clears his throat.

“Aramis ‘n I were thinkin’ about goin’ on a roadtrip together - visit his hometown again and go to one of his Dad’s last sermons. I urge you to join us.”

Athos’ eyes, still heavy with the remnants of last night’s excesses, clear a little at that. He eats another blueberry, licks his lips, and an idea seems to occur to him. “So I did not dream that - you really did go to church this morning.”

Porthos smirks. “We sure did. Aramis even told off a bigot when she tried to get fresh with us.”

Suddenly Athos looks positively awake. “Tell me everything,” he demands, fork pointed towards the ceiling.

Porthos does, while Aramis blushes, and Athos’ expression morphs into something so helplessly fond that it puts a terrible strain on Porthos’ heart. Because his chest has its limits, and his poor heart can only grow so big.

“Now I wish I had left a pancake for you,” Athos mourns. “You certainly deserve one.”

He sounds sincerely chagrinned, so very much so that Aramis prims his mouth and starts to shake with heroically suppressed giggles.

“You are still so drunk!” he finally gasps, tears of laughter in his eyes, while Athos manages to make matters worse by pouting at him.

Still he allows Aramis to take his plate and fork away from him so Aramis can climb into his lap and pepper his face with kisses.

“How are you suddenly so cute?” Aramis murmurs, as Athos turns to putty under his ministrations. “Why has nobody warned me of this?”

“Cause we all need to make these discoveries for ourselves,” Porthos explains, intently conveying the moment to memory while refraining from taking actual pictures. “It’s more fun that way.”


End file.
